


To Walk

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Banter, Gift Fic, M/M, Monks, Monstaries, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21939976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Monk time?Monk time.
Relationships: Rufus Drumknott/Havelock Vetinari
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	To Walk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Macdicilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/gifts).

> Merry Christmas, Manny!

Abbot Vetinari rose to bid the Duke goodbye, giving a neat inclination of his head, and Vimes bowed somewhat more lowly, although not as low as he ought. It was not as though Vetinari minded, of course – if anything, he rather _liked_ it, that Vimes showed the monastery and Vetinari himself such easy disrespect.

“Your grace,” Vetinari said in a mild tone, his lips twitching into a small smirk.

“Father Abbot,” Vimes muttered, his voice a low grumble, and he stepped out from the door, making his way down the corridor. Vetinari smiled after him, stepping from behind his desk to take his usual promenade of the monastery’s gardens, the dog in tow, but he was not, as yet, alone.

The figure that replaced Vimes was scarce more than a wanly lit shadow, slipping into the room on utterly silent feet, and when he came before Vetinari, he dropped smoothly at the waist, bowing lowly, and without hesitation, Vetinari allowed him to take hold of his hand and bring it to his lips, their cool surface brushing the back of his knuckles.

“Every morning, Brother?” Vetinari asked, voice low and dripping with the amusement he felt, for he did not see fit to hide it.

The obedientiary replied, voice so quiet it was scarcely louder than the shift of his robes against one another, “It is only proper, Father Abbot.”

“How comes our library?”

“Slowly it comes to its potential,” Drumknott answered, almost succeeding in not curling his lip as he raised his head, and he turned to Vetinari’s desk, beginning to straighten things that had been very-nearly straight beforehand, and neaten corners that required no neatening. This was the young man’s habit when he came to deliver his daily reports, and had been since he was a novice, so Vetinari had been informed. It had been implied to him that the consistent tendency was annoying, but Vetinari found it rather endearing, after a fashion. “Had I known when I had travelled here that the librarians and scribes were little better than oblates learning their letters, I might have—”

“Come now,” Vetinari said. “Your temper will do you ill, my friend. Won’t you walk with me?”

Drumknott faltered, his irritation neatly replaced with plain surprise.

“Father Abbot?”

“Walk, Brother,” Vetinari supplied. “Stroll, amble, promenade. We shall take the dog with us.”

“Mr Fusspot?”

“I believe that’s his name.”

“But— Is that not improper?”

“To walk in the December sunlight? I think not.”

“But, Father—”

“Is it not so, Brother, that we are instructed to enjoy the verdant wonder of the world about us, to look kindly upon its beauty, to take what fresh air we might find into our lungs and marvel at the sweetness of the morning dew?”

Drumknott looked at Vetinari as though Vetinari had casually suggested they burn the monastery to ashes. Vetinari smiled kindly in return.

“I was under the impression, Father Abbot, that you were not in the habit of smiling when I took this position. Had I known, I might have gone elsewhere.”

“I was not under the impression, Brother, that you had a great deal of choice in the matter, so difficult a fellow as you are to work alongside.”

“And yet, difficult as I am, you have made me an obedientiary.”

“Why wouldn’t I? Our library comes along in leaps and bounds under the firm grasp of your stern command.”

Drumknott pressed his lips together, his cheeks turning to pink. “You mock me.”

“I do no such thing.”

“You _do_.”

“Brother,” Vetinari said softly, leaning down toward the brother, that their noses almost brushed, and Drumknott actually _gasped_, although he hid it well, his lips scarcely parted, the sound almost inaudible. “Are you contradicting the word of your Abbot?”

“No,” Drumknott said lowly.

“Good,” Vetinari said, straightening. “Let us walk, then.”

Drumknott opened his mouth to protest, but when Vetinari gracefully arched one eyebrow, he faltered, and looked down at the ground. Vetinari was almost disappointed, although Drumknott was certainly gaining confidence in their little interactions.

“I will retrieve the dog,” Drumknott announced to the floor, and Vetinari watched him go, not quite allowing himself to laugh.


End file.
